Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

told people his body was a temple, which is why it weighed the same as the Taj Mahal. He doesn’t make jokes about it any more. Nobody gives him their attention for long enough to reach the punchline.

He arrives in reception short of breath and uncomfortably damp. Finds himself in a dismal room with a low roof. There’s a reception desk to his right where two women in white shirts and blue jumpers sit behind big screens. A lumpy, bearded man in glasses lounges on the desk, arms folded. He looks like he’s in a bar, trying to get a better view of the spirits. There’s a row of lockers off to one side and a wall covered with old photographs of the building in decades gone by. Only the hairstyles have changed. The building in which he finds himself is every bit as bleak and forbidding as it would have been when it was still a place of execution: when men and the occasional woman would be led across the courtyard for an appointment with a trapdoor and a knotted rope.

Rufus crosses to the desk, his cords making a shushing noise as they rub together at the thigh. Three pairs of eyes swivel towards him. He picks the ones that look most awake. They’re green, and belong to a young woman with a round face and a general air of friendliness about her. She’s freckly, with glasses and simple gold studs in her ears, and up close he can see that she has combed talcum powder through her hair rather than wash it. Wonders if she rose late, or just couldn’t be bothered. Files the question away for later. They can dissect it in class: aspects of character and flawed perception.

‘I’m due to be teaching here,’ says Rufus, trying to catch his breath. ‘I’m late, I think, though I can’t remember what time we said. Annabeth. Erm, Miss Harris. Mrs, maybe, I don’t know … never asked …’

‘Definitely a Ms, that one,’ says the man beside him. He has blackheads on his nose and beneath the thin white material of his shirt he’s covered in coiled black tattoos. ‘Mzzzz – that’s how you say it, isn’t? Like a mosquito against a window. Going to stay that way, I reckon. Of course, they’re all allowed to get married now, aren’t they? Lasses and lasses, lads and lads. What next? I’ve a plasma screen with surround sound that I bloody love. Reckon I should pop the question?’

Rufus processes the officer’s words and finds himself rumpling his features in distaste. ‘Wow, that’s extraordinary,’ he says, as sarcastically as he can. ‘To fit so many prejudices into one sentence – your parents must just drip with pride.’

The young woman on reception laughs and the male officer returns her smile. He hasn’t taken offence. Clearly sees himself as a wind-up merchant; somebody who likes a bit of banter and believes everybody should be able to handle a bit of leg-pulling in the workplace.

‘Ignore our Antony,’ says the receptionist, fumbling with a name badge and checking the time before scribbling something onto an official timesheet. ‘Anybody who turns him down for a drink is automatically a lesbian. Which, if we’re honest, means everybody who works here. He thinks I’m a lesbian, and I’ve been with my Johnny since we were at school.’

‘Proves it,’ says Antony, smirking. ‘Started too young to know any better and now you’re together out of habit. Come out for a drink with me, I’ll show you a different way to live.’

Rufus sizes him up. He doesn’t see himself as a physically able man, but he still has the broad back built up during his days on the university rowing team, and he’s had his nose broken and fingers trodden on in rugby matches countless times. He isn’t afraid to say what he thinks, and he thinks that ‘our Antony’ is a prick.

‘Told you before,’ says the receptionist, brightly, as she hands Rufus a name badge. ‘She’s focused on her career.’

Antony snorts, disgusted at the idea. ‘Needn’t worry so much about it. The rate the newcomers are jacking it in, she’ll have her pick of the jobs even if she never gets any better at it. Bloody fast-tracks, coming in with their degrees and trying to show us where we’re going wrong. I mean, why pick this bloody place? It’s an embarrassment to tell people you work here. My mate at Full Sutton reckons this was like her third or fourth choice but they couldn’t find room for her at Frankland. Lucky us, eh?’ He looks Rufus up and down. ‘What are you then? Writer or something, is it?’

‘Or something,’ says Rufus. He gestures at his bag. ‘Do I leave this here? Take it in?’

‘Metal detector and a search through that door,’ says the receptionist, still all smiles. ‘You’re going to the education centre. A lot of halls and a lot of locked doors, so Mr Womack will meet you at the family area, just down the way there. Don’t listen to Antony. Annabeth is an absolute star.’

‘Wouldn’t know,’ sniffs Antony. ‘Too good to come out with the rest of us. Bloody hermit, that one. Can’t answer a simple question. I mean, you’ve got to know your colleagues, haven’t you? Know they’re on your side. Know what they’re about. I reckon she’s a do-gooder. Worked for that charity, my mate said, but he’s full of shit too so I can’t swear to it …’

Rufus holds up a hand as if directing traffic. ‘Antony, can I stop you there?’ he asks, cheerfully.

‘Yeah, what?’

‘No, that was it. Just wanted to stop you.’

He enjoys the giggle from behind the desk as he walks away, bag banging on his hip, and a certain pep in his step.

Annabeth sounds fascinating.

EIGHT

Annabeth watches Karen talk. She knows she should probably listen to some of the words as well, but experience has taught her that the prison librarian only requires the occasional nod, grunt or elongated vowel to feel